by PAUL HUMPHREY
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 Paul Humphrey Credit: Disaster Master |
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...It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. The cliff was heating up quickly in the afternoon sun. We were miles from an open road. Far below us the drainage of Surprise Creek fed the wild South Fork of the Trinity River. The face was untouched.
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 Cedar Wright Credit: Disaster Master |
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Pants are good. Someone was on to something there. Everything is contained, you know... Protected. Tidy. Nudity and climbing, although possibly each entertaining on their own, are poor companions. Hour upon sun-fried hour passed as Cedar clawed, hung and threw his way up the steep blank slab. He was oblivious to his naked state, engrossed in the problem. I was left with nothing better to do than watch the groove dug by my leg loops grow deeper over time. Good times, (ouch), good times.
After a few years Cedar shouted down that he was ready to drill. He hauled the beast up, then fell into a tirade. The bolts were all in pieces, five each. I had painted them gray to match the rock in the morning, and had neglected to reassemble them. Now each time Cedar finished a hole he would shower bolt-related obscenities towards me, thoroughly ruining the ambiance. After eleven bolt tantrums I lowered him.
My groin was numb. My toes tingled. I was baked by the Sun. Cedar was psyched. “Yah, man, you’ll dig it. It totally engrossing. Tripped out, you know?”
I flashed a half-ass smile and marched with reserve to the rope. Burned, then hung up for the Turkey Vultures. A regular TV dinner. I just wanted the damn thing over with.
Now it would stand to reason that, at least for male climbers, nudity and slab climbing present a new realm of injury possibilities. Abrasions in particular come quickly to mind. Deep in our brains, however, our survival mechanisms kick in, tipped off by sweaty palms, increased heart-rate, and our conscious mind screaming “This is insane!” This triggers a physical response related to fear called “Shrinkage”. Landing gear up, we’ve taken off.
Twenty feet up I was completely focused on the unique climbing. The blank slab was broken only by small letterbox pockets every eight feet or so. I found the only solution was to dyno up the slab, dead-pointing pocket to pocket. I have rarely been so motivated to succeed.
That’s when the shooting started.
It was far down the drainage to the west. A few shots would go off, then some others, as if someone was returning fire. We learned later that some hunters had stumbled into a patch of Humboldt's largest crop. Unfortunately, the gardeners were in mid harvest, and someone started shooting. At the time we had no clue, and continued the project.
A short time later I had drill in hand, ready to finish equipping the route. I pulled the drill’s trigger, then held on for the ride as it melted its way through the limestone. I killed the drill, ready to place the bolt, but the noise of an engine remained. Suddenly, directly over my head, a fixed wing plane shot into view over the top of the cliff, no more than 200 feet off the deck. It was a California Highway Patrol spotter plane, all done up in black and white. I would have crapped my pants had I been wearing any.
The sight of a sunburned naked man lashed to the side of the cliff, holding what looks like an assault pistol, seemed to startle the pilot. I could see his face as he buzzed over. Instead of continuing towards the gunfire, the plane circled back for another look. Trying to look casual I continued to place the bolt during this second fly-by. Ignore it and it will go away, right? No such luck. Back they came again. What were they going to do, drop us a ticket? This time we both looked up and gave a thumbs up. The pilot shook his head and turned down the valley.
This was getting ridiculous. We decided that we had better get going sooner than later. The gunshots died down as I sunk the last of the bolts required for the line. Then we hightailed it out of there. Days later we returned to bag the first ascent of “Buck Naked”.
